Marino and Rina were older, more vulnerable, and they
had a bad dose of the flu. Just like us, they both ran high fevers and vomited,
and the accompanying coughs echoed up the stairs to our apartment. But Marino's
cough gradually degenerated into long staccato hacks. When Zio Silvio knocked
on the front door to see how
we were, I heard Rina shuffle to answer it in her robe and slippers. She asked
him to drive down to the bar in Gaminella to telephone for the doctor. Marino
was too ill for her to treat. As I coughed and coughed upstairs, trying to rest
while the children napped and George snored, it occurred to me that the
children were getting better, but we adults seemed to be getting worse. In my
weakened state, I wondered morbidly what would happen to the children if we all
died. It seemed I was assimilating the Italian penchant for the dramatic.
The doctor arrived the next morning. He diagnosed my
father-in-law with bronchial pneumonia. Since Marino also had a bad heart, the
coughing and the fever had stressed his entire system and had left him very
weak. The doctor ordered him into the hospital in Casale immediately. Marino
resisted, but Rina persuaded him that since the rest of us were ill, there was
no one to care for him properly at home. He had no choice. George and Rina
would drive him to the hospital that afternoon to make sure he was admitted.
After lunch we all trooped downstairs to see Marino
off. He looked pale and drawn as he shuffled down the stone hallway to the
front door, leaning on his walking stick. As I had noticed with George’s
relatives in California, to older Italians, going to the hospital meant you
were going to die. With tears in his eyes Marino kissed each of the children
goodbye. I am certain he thought he would never see them again. The children
were not sure what was going on, but they stayed suitably subdued as they
watched him hobble out to the car in the light rain. Zio Silvio and Zio Remo stood by ready
to help. After the brothers shook hands and exchanged quick hugs, George and
Rina settled Marino into the back seat. We watched from the doorway as George
drove slowly out of the courtyard. All three were coughing as they rounded the
corner of the house. Upstairs, the children and I gathered at the window to
watch through the drizzle as the car slowly wound its way down the hill, across
the bridge, and into a fog bank.
Hospitals in Italy at that time were a far cry from
the facilities we were used to in the States. We had visited Rina's
brother-in-law in the same hospital a few weeks before. We were shocked. George’s
job in California as a social worker had required many visits to L.A. County
General Hospital. As crowded and run-down as conditions were in Los Angeles, he
said it looked like a palace compared to the Italian hospital. The
"wheel-chair" was a couple of pieces of wood sloppily hammered
together on wheels. The long ward in which his uncle stayed was lined with
beds, but no curtains for privacy. While not required, it was strongly
suggested that a relative stay day and night to help each patient. There was no
bed for this unpaid nursing help, just a chair, and they also had to provide
the patient's bottled drinking water. At lunchtime, the kitchen staff rolled a
big pot of soup down the center aisle. They doled out the same thing to each
patient, without respect to dietary needs. If the patient wanted something
else, the relative could bring it. The medical equipment looked 50 years behind
the times, and to top it all off, we never saw a doctor actually touch a
patient. Standing aloof in a suit and tie, they directed the nurse to perform
the examination. They seemed to be afraid they would catch something. Maybe the older Italians had reason to worry.
As George and his parents drove into the city, they
dreaded their arrival at the hospital.
When they got there they were even more dismayed to learn that, because
of the flu epidemic, the only available bed was in a hallway. Since my in-laws
were American citizens, they were charged the “foreigners” rate of $30 a day— exorbitantly
expensive in 1972, especially for hallway accommodations.
With no other option, George and his mother allowed
Marino to be admitted and helped him undress. Still coughing and exhausted themselves, they left him lying on his bed in
the hallway and drove home.
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